


Dog Eat Dog

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Animals, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal wants to be Will's sole companion. Will's dogs are getting in the way of that. </p><p>Based on this prompt from the Hannibal kink meme: "Will turns Hannibal in. Hannibal escapes and instead of killing Will, he goes after his dogs instead. Will has the unholy grandmother of all meltdowns when he sees the result."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Eat Dog

Raymond 

 

Will rings the doorbell insistently until Hannibal arrives. It’s terribly rude but, to be fair, Will is not in a polite state of mind. 

“Raymond is missing.” 

Raymond is the Bernese mountain dog that has been Will’s companion for five years now; the first of his strays. Hannibal knows this because, next to Winston, he is the closest to Will, one of the few still trusting enough to both give and receive comfort. Will falls back on telling stories about Raymond when their sessions drag out, giving detailed narratives about the dog’s continued training or his latest romp in the woods. Raymond is Will’s baby. 

Now, with his child missing, Will is as wrecked as any parent. He stands on Hannibal’s doorstep, shaking with cold and horrifying scenarios. The doctor observes his patient – his clammy skin, tremors in his voice, the lack of socks or an adequate jacket – and wonders if Will has ever empathized with an animal before. He certainly is now. His eyes hold a consciousness that is only half present. The rest of him is with Raymond, maybe wandering lost and hungry, maybe splattered against the hood of a car. 

“Y-y-you have to help me.” 

“Of course, Will. Just a moment.” 

Hannibal never hesitates. In seconds he has coats for them both and an extra scarf for Will. He bundles him into the car, roaring out faster then he should on the icy roads. It’s only when he’s twenty minutes out towards Wolf Trap that he realizes: Will must have walked here. He’d been moving steadily forward for hours, unrelenting, searching for his dog. 

“Your feet must be bleeding, Will.” Hannibal could only imagine the blisters. The pale ankles peeking out of his boots have deep scratches, as if Will ran through underbrush. “There is a first aid kit on the back seat. Please use it.”

Will doesn’t move. His breath pants irregularly against the window – much like a dog’s would – until a fog forms against the glass. Lifting one shaky finger, Will traces a backwards “Raymond” in the mist. 

“He’s bleeding.” Will whispers. 

“Nonsense. I’m sure he is fine.” 

“I can smell blood.” 

“I assure you, Will, all there is to smell is my new air freshener. It was advertized as a ‘woody, floral fragrance.’ I thought you might like it.”

Will doesn’t answer. 

There aren’t many cars on the streets, not at this time of night, but the one vehicle they do spot has a its window rolled down despite the cold. A dog nose, indecipherable due to distance (and therefore capable of being anyone) pokes out and barks as they pass. Will cringes and looks back, giving a whine more canine than human. 

***

They search until six in the morning. They’re back out on Will’s property and as the sun comes up – making everything crisp and clear – Hannibal decides that enough is enough. 

“Perhaps over there,” he suggests, pointing towards a thick grove of trees. “If he was injured he may not have gotten far.” 

Will nods frantically, still hyperactive with grief. He jogs off and Hannibal sets himself in motion, having reserved the majority of his energy in a careless search. He opens the trunk, pushing aside six of his new air fresheners, and pulls Raymond’s corpse from his car. The dog has been dead for hours, bleeding out from the deep gashes Hannibal tore into him with bare hands and teeth. The carnage to his back and rib cage doesn’t look like anything caused by a human. 

Quickly, Hannibal carries the corpse into another clump of trees just a few paces from where Will drunkenly stumbles. He covers the small drips of blood that lead back to his car and, gearing up, prepares to act. 

“Will!” 

He’s there in a flash, giving a cry that’s all the more painful for the resignation in it. Hannibal makes sure Will sees him cradling Raymond, checking for a pulse, so as to explain the blood on his vest. He needn’t have bothered. Will is in no state to be questioning this crime scene. 

With a high keen in the back of his throat Will collapses, reverently touching a bit of Raymond’s fur. His hand comes away bloody. 

“Will. I am so sorry. It looks like coyotes, perhaps wolves…” 

Will doesn’t hear him. He’s closed his eyes, hand crunching rhythmically against the snow. Up down, up down. After a minute he’s broken through the soft fluff and discovered ice. It’s only when Will’s blood starts mixing with Raymond’s that Hannibal goes to him. 

“No, no... ” 

He cradles his patient and is delighted when Will cuddles back. It isn’t long until he’s in Hannibal’s lap, not exactly crying, but shaking out his grief in waves. There’s a sharp pain as nails dig against his chest, an unpleasant smell as unwashed curls are tucked under his chin. Hannibal lets him, petting his hair and pressing piles of snow against his flushed cheeks. 

The first time is always the hardest. It takes Will a full day to calm down and Hannibal is there for him through the whole ordeal. He makes calls to Jack, demanding space, while gently covering his charge in blankets to prevent hypothermia. Twelve hours later – most of that time spent in an uneasy sleep – Will has recollected enough of himself to demand a burial. So Hannibal digs, breaking through the ice to create a grave for the dog he’s murdered. 

Will lowers Raymond down in his favorite blanket, the one he slept on each and every night. It has a series of paw-prints across the front that, Will says, occurred with a puppy Raymond got into paint. 

“I am so sorry, Will.” Hannibal repeats. 

“Thank you… I— thank you, Hannibal.”

He is sorry. Sorry that it had to come to this. Will is fundamentally a loner, making him all the more vulnerable to the doctor’s friendship, but there is still one barrier separating him from Will Graham. The dogs have to go and this… this is only the beginning. 

“Rest in peace, Raymond.” Hannibal says, and closes up the grave. 

***

May 

 

Hannibal gives Will a whole month before killing the second dog. 

In many ways, Hobbs was right: it’s hardly murder if one honors each part of the victim. With that in mind Hannibal decides to gift Will with some practical souvenirs. 

He starts with gloves. 

The mutt – Mary? Martha? – is the easiest to get a hold of. Jack calls late on a Saturday afternoon, giving a clipped description of a recent murder up in Delaware. Will, still grieving for Raymond, is nevertheless forced to call on Hannibal, begging for a sitter. He must leave immediately, but the dogs… the dogs…

“The dogs will be fine,” Hannibal sooths, beginning to pack a bag. The Fates have given him an unprecedented opportunity and it would be rude to let it pass by. “I will watch over them personally. Do you mind terribly if I make use of your kitchen? There is a series of miniature tarts I’ve been quite eager to try and perhaps your family could do with some extra company. I imagine they are also… fragile, after so recently losing one of their pack.” 

“Yeah…” There is a crack in Will’s voice and Hannibal knows that he’s chosen his words well. “I— I think they’d really like that. Just…”

“Yes?”

“Be careful?” Hannibal can hear him cringing; see the mortification sweep across his face. “N—n-not that you’re not careful. I don’t mean that. Just, don’t give them anything, yeah? Food, I mean. They shouldn’t have a lot of people food.” Hannibal smirks. He’ll have to cut back on his ‘sausage’ then. “Winston isn’t eating as much as he should – I think he’s depressed – but May—” May. That was the creature’s name. “—she’s been a bit sick lately.”

“Sick?” Hannibal’s ears perk up. Much like a dog’s. 

“She vomited this morning. It’s probably nothing. Ate something bad outside. Sticks. Or, or… something. Just, keep an eye on her? Okay?”

“Of course, Will.” The sigh of relief he receives is tangible. 

Hannibal moves towards his garage, carrying the cell phone with him. There, on the back shelf, is a simple bottle of Preston antifreeze; a product he uses religiously on his windshield each winter morning. He calmly slides it into his bag and gives the whole thing a loving pat. 

“You need not worry, Will,” he says, “May is in excellent hands.” 

***

When Hannibal calls two days later he’s appropriately distraught. 

“May is at the vet,” he says. “She’s sick,” he says. “I did not know what to do, Will,” he babbles and breaks on every word. “I have never kept dogs before. She was crying after dinner and – what should— she collapsed, Will. I—” 

“Hannibal.” It’s not Will speaking. This person, standing frozen in another state, has Will’s voice but not his demeanor. He’s too calm, radiating control and indifference. He’s empathizing again. Maybe with a killer. Perhaps only with someone who’s confidence he respects. Either way, the breakdown must come later. 

“Hannibal,” he demands, “tell me which hospital.” 

So he does. 

Hannibal is there when Will arrives too late. Slipping on the tiled floors he races into the back but May has already passed from kidney failure. Later, over a glass of red, Hannibal will applaud himself on another stellar performance. He is tentatively attempting to be a friend to Will in his time of need and more importantly, trying to be his psychologist. But the guilt has hit him hard, harder than he expected. He makes sure that Will sees his hands shaking and the stains on his tie that he didn’t bother to change. Hannibal Lecter never loses control yet when the doctor informs them that poor, innocent May got into a bottle of antifreeze (“They’re attracted to the sweetness,” she says, glaring as if tasty chemicals were their fault) Hannibal crumples. One set of knuckles moves against his lips, the other knots into his trousers. He heaves once, careful not to overdue things, and Will is there. 

“This wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs. 

Of course it was. He gave her the bottle himself. Watched as she seized, then urinated all over the house. It took a while, but she eventually fell into a coma. Hannibal gave her an extra fifty minutes after that, whipping up one of his tarts. Only when he’d eaten did he leisurely drive to the vet. Will Graham, so often oblivious to the details of his own life, never stops to remember that he doesn’t even own a bottle of antifreeze. 

“Will…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal says, and once again he means it. It’s there, watching as Will’s face moves between devastation and concern that Hannibal decides to give a little bit of May back to his friend. 

***

It’s easy enough to get a hold of the body, forging documents to make it seem like cremation. A week after death Hannibal takes the pelt to his leather worker who, while being incredibly skilled, is also discrete enough not to ask why his client is handing him dog. He only raises an eyebrow, appreciatively petting the fur. 

“A beautiful piece,” he comments. 

“I hunted it myself,” is the answer.

That Christmas Eve, Hannibal gifts Will with a slender box in green paper. Inside are leather gloves, topped at the cuff with short but pleasingly warm, white fur. 

“I didn’t get you anything,” Will admits, admiring the craftsmanship. 

“I did not expect you to. Though for future reference, I am fond of gold, gems, and the occasional bronze.”

Will chuckles. He’s doing that a little more frequently now. The ache of Raymond’s passing has finally lessened and the effort of reassuring a guilt-ridden Hannibal stove off the pain of May’s… ‘accident.’ He knows that this project will eventually break Will, but for now he’s earned some rest. 

“You know,” Will says, “the fur… it kind of reminds me…” he swallows and falls silent. 

“Yes?”

“No. Nothing.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” He gives a half smile, slipping the gloves on as a polite way of indicating his departure. They form nicely to his flexing hands while the fur is elegant against his wrists. In his mind, Hannibal reminds the mutt to keep his master warm. 

“Happy Holidays, Will.”

“You too, Hannibal. Happy Holidays.” 

***

Simon, Garfunkel, Percy

 

After New Year’s Hannibal picks up the pace. 

With the onset of Will’s encephalitis his mental state deteriorates remarkably. He stumbles back into a routine founded on madness and whatever confidence he’d retained for Hannibal’s benefit is gone. One night, Will is so distraught he barges into a session, scaring Mrs. Weaver nearly into a panic attack. He pays no mind as Hannibal ushers her out the door, believing that she is merely another reincarnation of Hobbs. Will’s beautiful mind turns a dotty woman of eighty into a dead psychopath, come to leer and laugh at his attempts at stability. The creativity alone is fascinating. 

Will doesn’t speak that night but he does mutter to himself. Hannibal lets him roam the library, catching references to dogs torn apart in the woods or crying in places where Will can’t reach them. He does not need to point out that these hallucinations have as specific an origin as Will’s stag, born from trophies in Hobbs’ cabin. It would seem that Raymond and May have yet to truly leave their master. 

Three hours later Will falls into a stupor, knocking a book from its self as he falls. Hannibal, with a guardian’s gentleness, changes his sweat soaked clothes and tucks him into bed. There’s a glass of water for his parched throat, Advil should he need it, and a note encouraging him to shower when he wakes. Hannibal then chooses a ten-inch carving knife and heads towards Wolf Trap. 

Simon and Garfunkel. Two lap dogs, each of different breeds, but Will had found them together in a ditch. They crowd him as he enters Will’s home, begging for a treat. They know him now. Trust him, and are eagerly willing to crawl into his arms. 

Simon’s body spasms as Hannibal snaps his neck. 

Garfunkel isn’t as lucky. He starts yipping up a storm, emitting high-pitched wails that pierce Hannibal’s ears. In a moment, just one moment, he moves from indifferent to angry. The dog is pulled out by his tail – now howling, his body beating against his captor’s arm – and is gutted in the snow. Hannibal makes sure to break his jaw first, just to shut him up, and then starts in on his paws. The dog is mostly a pile of body parts before Hannibal mercifully opens his chest. 

When he’s done there’s a spread of blood three times the size of Garfunkel himself. No matter. The steadily falling snow will take care of that. Hannibal retrieves a hind leg and begins removing flesh from the tibia. 

It’s when he goes back for Simon’s corpse that he runs into trouble. 

He hadn’t counted on any of Will’s strays being aggressive but his chocolate lab – Percy, three years old – takes a running, soundless leap. It’s only Hannibal’s insistence on layering during the cold that saves his arm. Coat, jacket, sweater, starched shirt; as it was, he’ll have a row of bruises dotting his skin tomorrow. 

Hannibal has never been one to curse but he may have let out an expletive or two as he hurls Percy against the wall. It’s a far more exciting fight, the dog’s youth and size making him a challenge, but things turn serious when the mutt snaps at his face. The momentum carries them into a nearby table, Hannibal silently thanking Will for his tacky taste in furniture. A horrendously painted vase shatters and just as Percy begins admitting true growls he finds a shard lodged in his neck. He dies, muzzle soaking in his own blood. 

Hannibal stands and sighs at the state of his clothes. An unexpected casualty. 

He pushes forward though. The two little ones are quickly buried out in the woods, the snow covering up multiple new blood trails. Percy is driven two miles west, weighted, and dropped in the lake. Hannibal entertains himself with fantasies that someday the corpse will surface and catch Will unaware. The vase is disposed of – he doubt it will be missed – and the blood is scrubbed from the floor. It takes Hannibal two hours and at the end of it all only three leg bones remain, skinned of most of their flesh. 

He returns in time to make Will breakfast, whistling a jaunty tune. 

***

The breakdown is spectacular. 

Will wakes better rested than he’s been in days. He apologizes of course, adorably embarrassed at having had Hannibal Lecter tuck him into bed, but they pass over the tension with a meal of shirred eggs, blackberries, sweetened tea, and of course some ‘ham.’ 

“I hope I didn’t ruin your evening,” he says. 

“Not at all.” Hannibal spears a blackberry, chewing it thoughtfully. “My evening went… exactly as I’d hoped it would.”

“Oh. Good.” 

Will leaves his home bearing leftovers and a little more color in his cheeks. Hannibal then stretches out in front of the fire, waiting for the call. When it comes, it comes six hours later, the time lapse encouraging Hannibal to speculate on what Will did alone for that long, marinating in grief. 

It’s Jack’s voice on the phone: 

“Get here. Now.” He hears something shatter in the background. Hannibal breaks all the speed limits on his way over. 

As he pulls up to the house he can hear Will screaming. Except it’s not a scream at all. It’s a howl. Will is baying at the sky, a deeper, more fractured version of what Garfunkel made just hours before. Hannibal steps out in time to see three officers throwing Will to the ground, attempting to hold him as he bucks into the snow. Alana weeps on the sidelines, her tears more angry than upset. She orders that they not hurt him. Don’t you dare hurt him. 

“What happened?” Jack is at his arm, pressing down on the bruises Percy left. “What the fuck happened, Lecter!” 

“Where are his dogs?”

Jack pauses, clearly not having made the connection yet. “We have Winston in the police car. He was wild. The others though…” Jack frowns. 

“Are gone, no doubt.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Hannibal pries the hand off his arm, smoothing his jacket. “Will’s strays have encountered a remarkably coincidental string of bad luck recently. We found the first torn apart in the woods. The second died of kidney failure. Under my care I’m afraid. Now…”

“Coincidental my ass.” Jack gives him a hard look. “You were there for the second?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance the dog was intentionally poisoned?”

Hannibal nods solemnly. “I had patients that week and dinner with a colleague. I fear I cannot always be with Will’s dogs while he’s away.”

“It sounds like some psycho hitting him where it hurts.” 

“A distinct possibility.”

“Shit.” 

Jack scrubs two hands across his face, much as Will might. “He missed his lecture,” he says. “Dr. Bloom was worried, came over here. She found him… decimating his house.” Jack gestures to the window where Hannibal can just make out slashed curtains and an overturned couch. “She claims he was still speaking at that point. Yelling, ‘where are they? Where are they?’ endlessly. She didn’t know who he was looking for. Called us. By the time I got here he was…” They turn to the pile of men still wrestling in the snow. 

“Empathizing,” Hannibal suggests. 

Jack pales. 

Will is an animal now. He is wild, snarling and growling, spitting and clawing at the humans who hold him. Hannibal watches, entranced, as Will turns, agile as a young pup. He sinks his teeth into an officer’s arm and, where Percy failed, tears back with a chunk of flesh. Blood streams so vibrant it hurts the eyes. Will chews pleasantly and then spits the meat back, resuming his barking mantra. The officer screams, only barely managing to drown out the horrified cries around him. He faints seconds later. 

“Enough.” 

Hannibal strides forward. When’s he’s a foot from Will he raises his arm. 

“William, enough!”

It’s a command. Not one that this canine Will truly understands but his instincts recognize an alpha’s voice. He pauses, shoulders hunched, and the hesitation is just enough for Hannibal to get behind him. He’s taken down far stronger men than Will Graham and it’s child’s play to pin him with knees and an arm. Hannibal’s other hand unwraps the scarf from his neck. 

“If you bite, Will,” he says, “then you will be muzzled.” 

He does just that, slipping the cashmere between his friend’s teeth. Will mewls against the bond but he’s too weak to fight anymore. Hannibal can feel the trembling in the legs beneath him, the sigh as Will allows his forehead to bend towards the snow. Alana is torn, moving between the now passive Will and the injured cop. Jack moves forward with handcuffs, resigned. Hannibal ignores them both, instead threading his hand in Will’s hair, petting him. 

“Good boy,” he says, and Will sleeps. 

***

While Will recovers in the hospital Hannibal goes back to Wolf Trap. With a concerned air he removes nearly all traces of the dogs’ former presence. All beds and chew toys are donated, as is the majority of the food. Alana helps him, taking the blankets they slept on and stuffing them in her car. Hannibal doesn’t know what she does with them and doesn’t particularly care. All that matters is that when Will is released he’ll have a nearly dog-free home to return to. 

Hannibal also leaves a gift for his friend to find, centered in the kitchen table. There are three knifes: two small, one large. Each of the knives has a bone handle. Alana, too curious for her own good, asks what kind of bone it is. Hannibal smiles. 

As they leave soft cries can be heard. There’s a dog in the closet who refuses to leave. He won’t go anywhere near Hannibal. 

Winston is the only one left. 

***

Winston

 

“Will, you must eat.” 

It’s six months since his release from the hospital but Will stares hollowed-eyed at the dish before him. There’s a steady, minute tremor in both his hands. 

“I made this dish especially for you.”

Will picks up his fork. 

“A foreign delicacy.” 

Spears a bit of meat— 

“I think you’ll enjoy it.”

and mechanically chews. 

“Do you think they’ll find him?” he asks after swallowing, voice wavering. 

“Find who, Will?”

“Winston.” 

“Winston?”

“My dog.”

Hannibal sets his own fork down, concern skirting across his face. He moves to speak, hesitates, and settles on dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He takes his time before speaking again. 

“Will,” he says, almost sighs, “we’ve discussed this.”

His friend’s eyes glaze. He looks vaguely confused. “What?”

“Your delusions? Winston does not exist, Will. Neither does Raymond. Or May. They are hallucinations, brought on by your precarious mental state. They aren’t real and you have never once owned a dog.” 

“I haven’t?”

“No.”

“… Oh.” Will swallows, then nods. 

“Come, eat.” 

He does, consuming everything Hannibal puts on his plate: the arugula salad, a tangy soup, two servings of the rice pilaf topped with some kind of fragrant meat. It reminds him of a cross between beef and mutton but with an extra, unidentifiable spice. Will eats his fill. 

The meat, he thinks, is delicious.


End file.
